


Control

by Talvikuningatar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Chapters 1 and 2 have very little to do with each other, It's all just an excuse to write porn, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predicament Bondage, Sex Toys, Very Mild Overstimulation, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvikuningatar/pseuds/Talvikuningatar
Summary: Both of them have their own way of giving up and taking control; it's only fair.Breaking your lover's self-control may be less fair, but it's still fun.(Chapter one: Sherlock. Bondage. Dildo.Chapter two: the next morning, just what Sherlock asked for.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my first language, forgive me my mistakes (or tell me how to fix them, that's cool too).

The floor was cold and hard under Sherlock's knees, but he barely felt it. He could hear his own breathing, already harsh, and feel his heart thumping in his chest, but that wasn't important.

The ropes connecting his bound-together wrists to his ankles tightened as he knelt up, lifting his arse as high as he could. The dildo inside him was only an inch deep now, an inch and a half at most, and though it still felt like too much, it was better than having the whole thing filling him up, vibrating against his prostate.

His cock, hard and wet at the tip, didn't seem to register the difference, but kept twitching with every involuntary movement of his hips.

Sherlock stayed up until the strain in his thighs became too much, and lowered himself down slowly, feeling the ropes slacken. The dildo was thick, spreading him wide as it made its way back inside him. Had it been this thick when John had lowered him on it the first time, several minutes ago? It must have been, but god, it felt bigger now. Was there some law of physics that could explain that? Trying to come up with something could distract him. Yes. That sounded like a promising idea. Except–

Except that he couldn't focus on anything beyond the pleasure coursing through him. No distraction could keep his attention when this constant stimulation was demanding it.

It didn't take him long to start panting. The dildo was so deep in him, and the steady vibration was driving him mad. It should have become easier when he got used to it, but it only seemed to intensify until it felt as if the vibrations were travelling through his entire body, from his toes to the top of his head.

He grabbed the ropes in both hands, aware that he wouldn't be able to touch the knots but trying anyway, and ran his fingers along the smooth, soft surface until he reached his ankle. He knew exactly where the knots were, knew he could open them without a problem if he could access them, but John was good at this. John would never tie them so that Sherlock could free himself. He'd made that mistake twice in the past and would not repeat it anymore.

The vibrations of the toy inside him were becoming unbearable, and he lifted himself up again, as high as he could. Sweat was beading on his skin, sliding down along his spine and tickling at his temples. The ropes were digging into his buttocks like this, and he arched his back to avoid them, but though that allowed him to raise his pelvis higher, it strained his already tired muscles even more, and soon he had to give up and sink back down. The dildo rubbed against his prostate on its way in and he gasped, leaning forward to ease the pressure on that spot.

That didn't help for long, not with the vibrations spreading through him, and he had to lift up again, panting, his entire body trembling. A drop of sweat slid down his chest, over his belly and into his pubic hair, and he squirmed.

His thighs were burning, and he lowered himself halfway down, then rose again. The ropes were shifting against his skin as he repeated the movement, letting it distract him from the tiredness of his muscles, again and again, all the way up and then a little bit down, never low enough for the toy to reach his prostate.

It took him a while to realise he was fucking himself on the dildo. He glanced to the side, where John was sitting in his armchair, watching, calm, still, perfectly in control.

Their eyes met, John's dark with desire, Sherlock's own wide and, he assumed, filled with desperation. He gasped, his concentration gone, and dropped down, impaling himself on the toy again. His mouth was hanging open, and he may have let out a sound of some sort, he wasn't sure. His heart was hammering against his ribs, so loud he imagined John could hear it. John's eyes were hungry, fixated on him, and he smiled when Sherlock averted his gaze and whimpered.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, forcing the whimper down. He could keep going, fight it until exhaustion took over and he was left trembling with the toy embedded in his arse, or he could admit defeat now and fuck himself into orgasm like his body was demanding him to do. Either way, he would end up coming with the damn thing up his arse, John would make sure of that.

He closed his eyes and raised his hips, then lowered them, establishing a steady rhythm that had him gasping in moments. His cock was so hard it hurt, and he knew that a single touch would take him over the edge. That touch was not coming, of course; John would not take pity on him, and his own hands would stay tied behind his back until this was over.

"Please," he gasped, fucking himself on the toy faster, arching his back to feel it press hard against his prostate. "Oh god _please_."

Every movement was torture, his muscles too tired for this, his cock aching, his arse too full and the vibrations of the dildo too strong, and it wasn't _enough_. He was grinding himself on the toy, barely lifting his arse anymore, whimpering with every move. He couldn't, he couldn't, he was so close but he _couldn't_.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

For a moment, Sherlock thought he'd imagined it, but when he opened his eyes, his hips never ceasing their desperate movement, John was kneeling on the floor in front of him, smiling at him. The look on his eyes was hungry and possessive and still somehow gentle, and Sherlock gasped, arched his back, and that was it. He came hard, the world fading as pleasure crashed over him. All he could see was John, smiling at him, and all he could hear was John's voice, whispering encouragement and praise as he convulsed, spilling come all over his aching thighs.

 

 

He must have passed out for a while, because the next thing he knew, he had been untied, cleaned from his own ejaculate and was held curled up in John's steady arms, his head resting on John's chest. John's erection was pressing against his hip through John's jeans and two of John's fingers were between his buttocks, tracing around the still-loose, slick ring of his hole. Sherlock whined and tried to shift away. In retaliation, John pressed the fingers in to the second knuckle, and Sherlock stilled, whimpering quietly.

"You did well," John said and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. He slid his fingers out of Sherlock and patted him on the hip. "You were so good, my darling, so good."

Sherlock smiled up at John, suspecting it looked a little dopey, but unable to do anything about that. John, the master of dopey looks after sex, would not hold it against him.

John smiled back and leaned down to kiss him, a soft brush of lips against his. That was not nearly enough, Sherlock decided, and turned to wrap an unsteady arm around John's shoulders, clinging into his jumper. He plunged his tongue into John's mouth, and though John made a surprised sound, he met Sherlock's tongue with his own and didn't protest. Sherlock would have smiled if his lips hadn't been so busy.

When he pulled back, he found John watching at him with hunger in his eyes.

"Ready to go to bed, then?" John asked, voice rough with desire.

Sherlock nodded and didn't bother to try to hide his pleased smile. He loved these moments, when he was warm and satisfied and floating on endorphins and John was almost vibrating with need, and it was Sherlock's turn to be in control. He could say no, could deny John now. Could make John wait, make him _beg_ if he wanted. John knew it too, knew it was his turn to be at Sherlock's mercy, and the best part was, he had no problem with it.

"All right, up you get then," John said, wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock and helped him to his feet.

Sherlock swayed for a moment, leaning most of his weight on John. He could imagine how his thighs would ache tomorrow, how every step he took would remind him of this.

"Don't look so damn smug," John told him gently, and started guiding him towards the bedroom.

Sherlock's legs weren't quite up to the task of walking yet, so John ended up half-dragging, half-carrying him there. Sherlock didn't mind; he enjoyed being pressed against John's solid side. He wouldn't have minded if John had picked him up in his arms, but he supposed that would have been a bit much to ask.

Once they made it to the bedroom, Sherlock fell on the bed, and John arranged him on his back in the middle of it.

"Now you are going to lie there, and I'm going to wank myself and come into your pretty mouth." John smiled and stroked his hand down Sherlock's cheek. "I'm sure you find that agreeable."

Sherlock didn't trust his voice to work yet, so he nodded. John gave him a quick kiss, then straddled his chest, opened his own flies and pushed his jeans and pants down enough to release his cock. It was beautifully hard, and John shuddered when he wrapped his hand around it.

Usually, Sherlock enjoyed observing how John touched himself, memorising every move to be able to replicate them himself later, but now he was too exhausted, too out of it. He did nothing but watched how the slick head of John's cock appeared from the foreskin with every down stroke, only to be mostly coved again with an upstroke, again and again.

He couldn't tell how long it took, but after a while, John told him to open his mouth, and then the thick head of John's cock was between his lips, and warm spurts of come were landing on his tongue. Sherlock swallowed the best he could around it, but when John pulled his softening cock away, a trickle of semen still slipped down from the corner of his mouth.

John swiped it with his thumb and brought the slick digit to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock took it in his mouth, licking and sucking it clean, his eyes focused on John's.

"That's my good darling," John whispered and leaned down to kiss him on the lips without removing his thumb. "You did so well. Feel like going to sleep?"

Sherlock nodded, and the thumb slipped from his mouth. John smiled and slid out of the bed to remove his clothes. He hung them carefully on the back of a chair before returning to the bed and lying down beside Sherlock. After a short struggle to get his limbs to move, Sherlock managed to turn to his side, his back towards John. John wiggled closer, wrapped an arm around Sherlock's chest and pressed light kisses on his hair and the nape of his neck.

"John?" Sherlock whispered. His voice sounded hoarse, and he had to clear his throat.

John hummed against the back of his neck. "What is it?"

"Wanna wake up with you inside me."

John squeezed him tighter. "Greedy. I'll see what I can do about that," he promised.

Sherlock smiled, closed his eyes, and was asleep in seconds.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up on his belly, feeling heavy and hot. And good. Really, _really_ good. He shifted his hips, rubbing his erection against the bedsheets, and John made a satisfied sound, lips brushing his upper back.

"There you are, darling. I was starting to think you wouldn't wake up before you came."

Sherlock moaned and thrust his hips back, impaling himself further on John's cock, so thick and reaching so very deep into him. John's weight on him was glorious, pinning him down, forcing him to stay still when John pushed deeper until Sherlock saw stars.

"How long have you…" God, his voice sounded so weird. He cleared his throat. "How long have you been, ah, been in me?"

"Not long," John told him as he pulled out, the movement unbearably slow, before pushing back in. He pressed a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades, grinding his hips against his arse. "Were you dreaming?"

Sherlock tried to remember, but if there had been dreams, they'd faded already. "Probably," he said anyway. "About you fucking me."

John snorted and pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, still slow and torturous. God, it was good, Sherlock thought and thrust his hips back, hard. John caught him by the waist and forced him to still.

"None of that, darling. Let me do the work here. Wanna fuck you so slow and good, you just lie there and take it, all right?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He pushed the pillow away from under his head, crossed his arms in front of him and rested his forehead on them. There were faint marks on his wrists, left by the ropes last night, and he smiled. John thrust deep into him, and Sherlock arched his back and shifted his hips for better angle. John's next thrust hit him exactly right, and he moaned, clenching around the cock in his arse.

"Hmmm, that's good, sweetheart," John breathed. His hips kept moving, the pace so slow it was driving Sherlock mad. "Is it good for you, tell me."

Sherlock nodded, and realised he was trembling. "So good, John, amazing, wonderful…" All the compliments John showered him with he deserved back when they were like this. "Keep fucking me, harder, deeper, _please._ "

He could feel John shuddering; begging always did things to him.

"No, love, we go slow, so slow," John told him, even though it was obvious a part of him wanted nothing more than to fuck Sherlock hard and fast until he screamed.

Well, Sherlock thought, there was still time for that too.

John ground his pelvis against Sherlock's arse again and gripped his hips, lifted them a little. "You're so sweet and tight, Sherlock, I could fuck you forever."

" _John_ ," Sherlock sighed. As much as he wanted it rougher, he also wanted it like this, slow and gentle and going on until he couldn't think. He loved the feel of John on top of him, John's steady hands holding him still, his hot breath against the back of his neck.

John kept rocking into him, and Sherlock could hardly believe he was able to do it like that. He could feel John almost vibrating with the need to nail Sherlock to the bed, and still he stayed steady, dragged his cock in and out of Sherlock as if that was the easiest thing in the world. Sherlock had always prided himself for his self-control, but he had to admit that when it came to sex, John's restraint was nothing short of impressive.

That, of course, made it all the more fun to _shatter_ it.

Sherlock allowed it to go on for a while, took John's deep, steady thrusts and moved along with them the best he could with John holding him still. John was a master at stimulating Sherlock's prostate like this, and he knew that if he let this keep going long enough, that and the friction of sheets against his cock alone would be enough to make him come.

That, however, was not what he wanted. When it became almost too much, Sherlock made his move.

"Fuck me," he begged. "God, please, fuck me, please, you feel so good in me, so big and hard, I need you deeper…" He fisted his hands in the sheets and thrust his hips back to emphasize his point.

John groaned, trembling. It was clear he was trying to cling to his self-control and losing the battle fast. Sherlock had no problem giving him another push.

"Please, John, fuck me," he breathed. "I want it hard and fast, it feels so good when you take me like that, I can feel it for _days_ afterwards, please, John, please–"

John made a desperate noise and lost control. He thrust into Sherlock harder, hands gripping his hips tighter, and Sherlock would have laughed, but he could hardly breathe when John was pounding into him exactly like he'd wanted. As it was, he merely gasped into the mattress and tried to hold back his orgasm, difficult as that was when John was hitting his prostate with every thrust and his cock was rubbed against the sheets with every jolt of his hips. He needed to make John come, and soon, but fortunately he knew how to do that too.

He reached behind himself, spreading his arse cheeks with both hands and tilted his hips exactly right for John to push all the way into him, balls deep. That also had the benefit of lifting his hips so that the pressure on his own cock eased just a little – just enough.

"Come in me, John, please, I need you to come in me," he whispered, clenching his muscles and shoving his hips up to meet John's thrusts.  "Fill me, John, please, fuck, I want my arse full of your come. Please!" It was a trite line, but for this once, Sherlock didn't mind; it _worked_ , and that was all he needed. Every word being the absolute truth only made it more convincing.

John gasped, slammed into him three more times, and then he was coming, hips twitching against Sherlock's arse, whispering something incomprehensible against his back.

Satisfied, Sherlock let his hands fall to his sides and smiled. He was so close, desperate to come himself, but he knew John would take care of that once he'd gotten his senses back, and meanwhile Sherlock could settle for being smug about making him come first.

After a while, John lifted himself up, his softening cock slipping out of Sherlock. A trickle of come and lube followed, ticking at his perineum. Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder and smirked. "So much about fucking me forever."

"Shut up," John said, but he was smiling.

He caught Sherlock by the hips, rolled him over to his back, and before Sherlock had a chance to do anything, three of John's fingers were up his arse, pressed hard against his prostate, and John's mouth was on his cock, swallowing him down. God, that mouth was perfect, hot and wet and sucking him exactly the way he wanted. He'd never met anyone with a mouth as amazing as John's was, and even better, John _enjoyed_ doing sinful things to Sherlock with his lips and his tongue.

It took only a few well-aimed thrusts of John's fingers and delicious swipes of his tongue to bring Sherlock to the brink, and then he was crying out, arching up from the bed as he came down John's throat. John swallowed around him, eager to suck every last drop of come from him, and the fingers inside him kept rubbing his prostate. It felt as if it would never end.

Finally, Sherlock flopped back on the bed. John removed his mouth, but not before pressing a slow kiss on the tip of Sherlock's softening cock. The fingers in his arse stilled, and John pulled them out almost all the way before plunging them back in. Sherlock whimpered, oversensitive and torn between, _yes, please, do that again_ , and, _stop, I can't take it anymore._

John did it twice more, forcing his fingers in deep and making Sherlock keen, then pulled them out and leaned forward to give Sherlock a slow, gentle kiss, exactly like the one he'd planted on the tip of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock kissed him back the best he could with his brain still fuzzy from the orgasm. The taste of his own release still clear on John's tongue, and he licked into John's mouth, chasing after it.

When John finally pulled away, Sherlock whined.

"Shh," John shushed him. "Let me do a bit of cleaning up, here, all right?"

"Don't care," Sherlock said. The words sounded slow and slurred, but he didn't mind. "Want to hold you."

"In a moment, promise."

John slipped out of the bed and headed to the bathroom. Sherlock listened the sounds of splashing water for a moment, and then John returned, a wet flannel in hand. Sherlock spread his legs and allowed John to wipe him clean of the mess they had created, but when John turned towards the bathroom to return the flannel, Sherlock caught him by the wrist.

"Leave the damn thing," he said, yanked the flannel from John's hand and tossed it on the floor. It landed there with a wet slap that made John grimace. "Get in the bed with me and let me hold you," Sherlock ordered.

John glowered at him but made no attempt to tug his captured wrist free, and after a moment, he got back to bed and settled beside Sherlock, one hand reaching down to pull up the duvet.

"That's better," Sherlock said, satisfied, and guided John's head to rest on his chest.

John let out a quiet sigh, his breath warm against Sherlock's skin, and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock put his own arm around John's shoulders and held him close. There was a low ache in his thighs, and his arse was throbbing mildly. Sherlock smiled.

"You came first," he said after a while, pleased with himself.

John snorted. "Yeah, but you played dirty."

"You _liked_ that."

"I suppose I did," John agreed, and the arm around Sherlock's waist tightened. He was smiling, it was clear in his voice. " _You_ came pretty fast when I put my mouth on you, anyway," he added.

Sherlock shrugged and pushed his hand into John's hair, soft and smooth under his fingertips. "I can't help it. I love your mouth."

"You love me," John told him.

Sherlock laughed and tugged John's hair. "Yes. Yes, I do. So very much."

And the best part was, John loved him back.


End file.
